


Haunted

by wyntre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntre/pseuds/wyntre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John copes after Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my Tumblr, but I pulled it from there and reposted it here.

_Falling, falling; the sickening crunch of a body hitting pavement, screaming…_

John woke for the third time that night, shaking; covered in sweat, fighting back tears. It had been a year since the ‘suicide’, since Sherlock's confession, a year far too painful for John to even begin to understand.

***

Their Baker Street digs stood empty; memories too fresh, too honest for John. The half-finished experiment on the kitchen table, the lingering smell of tobacco clinging to the air like a heady reminder of the great detective who’d once lived there. 

They had few reminders of the fact that they had fallen in love; a few photographs here and there, but Sherlock’s approach to relationships, and John’s knowledge that not everything lasts, had meant a lack of mementos. Yet there was one, a simple photograph in a simple frame, that stood on the mantle above the fireplace, John and Sherlock smiling, and gazing into each other’s eyes; John loved intensity of the blue in Sherlock’s eyes in that photo.  
It sat collecting dust.  
Then their bedroom, their bed; still unmade, sheets unchanged. John had left it all that way after Moriarty had killed Sherlock.

Because that’s what had happened, wasn’t it? Moriarty had killed Sherlock. Cold-blooded, ruthless murder.

His face haunted John’s dreams.

John had left Baker Street the day of Sherlock’s funeral.

John still heard the heart monitor. He heard the flatline, and the Code Blue callout when he was least expecting it.  He’d seen death before, was not adverse to it, he had seen some of his closest friends die in action. But Sherlock’s death had been different, far too close to his heart. Sherlock had been his life, his love. So said Frank Sinatra  _you’re so right, for what’s wrong in my life._  Truer words could not have been spoken, Sherlock had filled every void in John’s life. John had finally found someone he could call home.

‘Soulmate’ was a term John hated, he was too grounded in reality to attribute the other half of himself to another person; but Sherlock was John’s soulmate. Everything that John lacked was in Sherlock; and everything Sherlock lacked, was in John.  And he had lost it.

***

John found himself back at his council flat in Dagenham , blank walls staring at him. He fell back into a military routine; rise at 0500 hours, make the bed, shower at 0515, breakfast at 0600, familiarity was solace for John.   
His Spartan living quarters, with Formica furniture and galley kitchen, wasn’t home. Home was Sherlock’s arms around him at night, home was the way Sherlock could read him with a glance, home was the way Sherlock would bounce ideas off him while they were working a case, home was Sherlock’s smile, his laugh, his intense eyes that shifted through green, blue and grey. Home was 221B, the mess, their bed, the bullet holes in the wall.  
Home was Sherlock.

***

Eventually, the long line of condolences got shorter. Mrs Hudson would pop round for a chat and a cup of tea on occasion, and John would get a phone call from Lestrade now and then. The phone calls were always the same:  
 _“You okay mate?”  
“Fine.”  
“You should come have a pint.”  
“Thanks, but no.”_  Greg knew John was lying when he said he was fine.

Sometimes, John would pass Baker Street on his way to work at the surgery; would pass 221B, and would have to stop himself from knocking on the door, to find out if Sherlock was actually dead. He always expected Sherlock to come bouncing down the stairs and throw the door open, even before he would knock.

He never did.

And so 221B stood empty, collecting memories.

***

Back in his Dagenham flat, he pulled out the battered violin case from under the sofa. As he ran his fingers over the bow, he remembered Sherlock’s graceful fingers manipulating the strings, drawing forth the sweet melancholy from his mind. John saw the utter concentration, saw Sherlock’s eyes flash grey.  
And for a moment, John swore he heard music.

 

**~Fin~**


End file.
